Was she right, or was she wrong? He was too little interested to frame
an opinion of his own. He put things away in his mind, as if one of
these days he would think about them, but not now. The mist of unreality
had deepened and deepened until it had produced a feeling of numbness
all over his body. Was it his body? Were those really his own hands?
This morning also for the first time Ridley found it impossible to sit
alone in his room. He was very uncomfortable downstairs, and, as he
did not know what was going on, constantly in the way; but he would not
leave the drawing-room. Too restless to read, and having nothing to do,
he began to pace up and down reciting poetry in an undertone. Occupied
in various ways--now in undoing parcels, now in uncorking bottles, now
in writing directions, the sound of Ridley's song and the beat of his
pacing worked into the minds of Terence and St. John all the morning as
a half comprehended refrain.
They wrestled up, they wrestled down,
They wrestled sore and still:
The fiend who blinds the eyes of men,
That night he had his will.
Like stags full spent, among the bent
They dropped awhile to rest--
"Oh, it's intolerable!" Hirst exclaimed, and then checked himself, as if
it were a breach of their agreement. Again and again Terence would creep
half-way up the stairs in case he might be able to glean news of Rachel.
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